


Between the Lines

by AU Mer-Maid (neonstardust)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Featuring An Original Dog, Fluff? In My Fic? It's More Likely Than You Think, OC: Original Cat, Study Date, soft, soft fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-05-24 04:21:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14947484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonstardust/pseuds/AU%20Mer-Maid
Summary: THIS HAS BEEN DISCONTINUED AND IS INCOMPLETEThis test will decide his future, but sneaking a glance at Yahaba, Shirabu thinks maybe his future will be okay.





	1. Five Days

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Prep your heart, Em, it's about to melt
> 
> Formerly a gift for Em

_I want to disappear_.

Words swim across the pages, breaking and bending, twisting into waves that crash against the paragraphs, spilling stray letters into the margins. Shirabu blinks, tries to force the words back where they belong. Cheek smooshed against his textbook, the sentences blur into incomprehensible jumbles. A stray number stretches like a malformed shadow. On the wall, the clock ticks, but the hands don’t move, trapping Shirabu in an endless one p.m. prison.

Sit up straight. Stretch. Shirabu’s wrists crack. His shoulders burn. Glaring at a formula, he feels a headache pulse behind his eyes. Pen in hand, he jots down notes on clean paper, writing dissolving into messy scrawl as seconds tick into minutes. An overwhelming weight pulls down on his eyelids, blurring the words into monochrome smudges. At the same time, another weight settles on his back, pushing his head to the table, arms slumped across crumpled papers and mock tests. Empty coffee cups wobble and fall to the floor.

Ink splattered fingers pick at the corner of his book. Brain like soggy cereal, he counts the pages, groaning into his arm when he sees how many remain.

Six hours pass, but the clock reads only two-thirty. Shirabu’s legs itch to stand, to walk, to run far, far away. Pain tingles between his shoulder blades, but, stubbornly, he sits up, retrieves his pen from the dark recesses of his abandoned math notes. Words flow from its tip like bleeding wounds, dark and choppy. His hands burn.

 _One more page_ , Shirabu tells himself. Tired eyes scan paragraph after paragraph. Chapters blend into a mass of theorems and diagrams. Muscles sore, Shirabu fills out the review boxes, leaves a breadcrumb trail of notes along the margins, dapples the bold text with dying highlighter. _One more page. One more page_.

Soft ocean sounds hum from his phone, gentle and calming. Imaginary waves crest and fall. A pretend seagull flaps its wings with a distant cry. The chair feels hard against Shirabu’s back, like the rough wood of a ship, tossing him on a relentless sea until he tumbles into cold water, falling deeper and deeper, arms stretched out for a hope that isn’t there.

The doorbell chimes.

Shirabu jolts upright. The room spins. Peeling a sheet of science definitions off his cheek, Shirabu glares at a clock that mocks him with broken hands. Through blurry vision, the four-fifty almost seems to be flipping him off.

The doorbell chimes again, and Shirabu tries not to cringe. He can see the front door from his place at the table, but, as he gets up and shuffles along the carpet, the yards stretch into miles, stinging his legs with pins and needles.

“I don’t want any,” Shirabu grumbles. Clumsy fingers fumble with the lock.

“It’s Yahaba.”

“I don’t want any.” Pulling the latch free, Shirabu leans against the doorframe. Painted softwood swirls as he rubs his eyes.

“Shirabu?” Yahaba tentatively cracks opens the door. Tiredly, Shirabu remembers he should have done that himself. “You okay?”

“Why're you here?” Already, Shirabu’s headache returns, pulsing along his temples. “I told you, I’m studying.”

“You’ve been stuck in here for days. I know, I know”—he holds up a hand before Shirabu can protest—“you’ve got no time for breaks. So, I thought, maybe, we can study together?” Yahaba’s lips quirk into a soft, hopeful smile.

Shirabu rubs his temple. Mind slow, he feels like he’s missing something, like he’s still at the table, trying to extract compounds from formulas without any numbers. “We’re going to different schools.”

“Yeah, but I still have exams.” Fishing a book from his bag, Yahaba waves it coaxingly in Shirabu’s face. “So? Want some company?”

The last thing Shirabu wants is company. He doesn’t know how to entertain guests. The only thing his mother taught him was to have food handy, and, as his stomach rumbles petulantly, Shirabu can’t remember the last time he stepped foot in the kitchen for anything beyond coffee. Just the thought of studying with another person makes his headache flare painfully. And yet, Shirabu finds himself stepping back for Yahaba to come in.

Smiling, Yahaba steps inside. He moves through the house easily, not like foreign company or an obligatory study partner, but with a simple intimacy; Yahaba had always been more of a family member than a guest.

Shirabu hesitates. Behind him, the door waits, temptingly close, whispering words of freedom, of an escape from exams, expectations, failure. With great reluctance, Shirabu shuffles slowly to the table like it’s a death sentence.

Across from him, Yahaba arches an eyebrow at the towering pile of literature. “Organized chaos?” he asks, pushing aside papers strewn with messy English and misspelled Japanese.

“Just chaos.” Merciless joy fills Shirabu’s chest as he pushes his math book to the edge of the table inch by inch, until it tumbles to the floor, joining its siblings in the textbook graveyard.

Yahaba eyes him warily.

Shirabu ducks his head and sits. Suddenly the clock seems slower, the ocean sounds louder. Self-consciously, Shirabu clicks his pen. Without looking up, he watches Yahaba lay out color coded journals and a pile of textbooks, artfully tabbed. Gel pens wait in a neat row. Besides Yahaba’s detailed planner, Shirabu’s own notes look like a child’s scribbles.

Typing on his phone, Yahaba says, “I brought music. Just tap me if you need something.” He meets Shirabu’s gaze, lips pressed into a stern line. A silent message heard loud and clear: _Tap, don’t kick._

Shirabu clicks his pen again. _I’m going to kick him_. Slumping down in his chair, Shirabu glares at his science book, and, with large words and a new algorithm, the science book glares back. _Round two, soul sucker_.

The ocean sounds lull into a calming tune, joined by the scratching of Yahaba’s pen on paper. Leaning his head on his hand, Shirabu looks between Yahaba and his notes, sneaking glances at him between each annotation. He catches glimpses of each frown, of each bitten lip and word mumbled without sound. On a new page, Yahaba's brows draw together. At the next problem, his eyes sparkle with a silent, “Aha!”

For a moment, Shirabu loses himself to the laws of thermodynamics, but, when he looks up, Yahaba is already watching him, lips curved into a contented smile that has no place among such evil math and yet makes itself right at home all the same. One headphone dangles from his fingers. “I missed you.”

“I have maple syrup less sappy than you.”

Yahaba chuckles, the sound far more soothing than any ocean wave or distant seagull.

Yahaba puts his earbud back in, gaze returning to his notes, but the air feels lighter, cleaner, the room brighter. Chest warm, Shirabu turns to his own book, biting down on a smile.

 _I missed you, too_.


	2. Four Days

“I’m making you a deal.” Yahaba speaks slowly, carefully. “These”—he gestures to the row of pens and highlighters lined up neatly by purpose and size—“are mine. And this one, this _empty one_ ”—Yahaba meets Shirabu’s gaze, holding up an old mechanical pencil devoid of lead—“is yours. Deal?”

The cat tilts her head, fluffy tail sweeping Yahaba’s papers onto the floor.

“Yuka—”

Yuka launches across the table in a graceful leap and flops onto Yahaba’s laptop keyboard. Behind her, the screen lights up with an infinite trail of key-smashing. A textbook falls. As writing utensils clatter to the floor, Yuka nimbly snatches a pen from the cascade.

“Darn it, Yuka.”

Shirabu hides a chuckle behind his notebook, but his eyes sparkle, bright and mischievous.

“You’re enjoying my suffering.”

“Yes,” Shirabu agrees, “immensely.”

Yahaba rolls his eyes and collects his pens from the floor. Beneath the table, Shirabu’s dog lazily thumps his tail, head resting on the forsaken textbook.

“I need that.”

Flattening his ears, Masaru whines. The sound starts soft, pitiful, growing louder when Yahaba reaches for the book until Yahaba’s heart wilts in his chest.

 _Don’t look. Don’t look_. Yahaba meets Masaru’s gaze, brown eyes round and sad. _Darn it all._

“Fine,” he sighs. “Keep it.”

Sitting back in his chair, Yahaba finds Shirabu staring into space. His calloused fingers tap softly on the table. Overhead, the dining room light casts strange shadows down his face, leaving him pale, sickly. Vacant eyes look straight through Yahaba, past the dim walls, into a world where Yahaba can’t follow.

“Shirabu?” His voice suddenly feels too loud, oppressive in the silence, but Shirabu doesn’t stir. Recorded ocean sounds beat against invisible jagged rocks. Sprawled across his laptop, Yuka lets out a wary mew.

“Shirabu?”

“Hmm?” Shirabu muffles a yawn with his hand. Slowly, he turns his head, blinking as if only just coming back to himself. Exhaustion runs deep through his skin, weighing down a heavy-lidded gaze and curling his lips into a decisive pout. Eyes fluttering closed, his glare melts away, and Yahaba finds himself leaning closer, tracing his fingers along Shirabu’s cheek to see if he’s really as soft as he looks.

“What are you doing?” Shirabu doesn’t open his eyes, but he moves his hand to linger on top of Yahaba’s, keeping him in place.

 _You’re beautiful_. Yahaba smiles. “Go sleep before I kick your ass.”

Shirabu scrunches his nose. Chestnut eyes open to glare at him, and Yahaba leans closer to see each fleck of gray and gold and silver dotted around vibrant irises. His lips quirk in a teasing smile. “Fight me, peasant.”

Caressing his thumb along Shirabu’s cheek, as if he can map out the constellations of his freckles, Yahaba smirks and asks, “You dare challenge me?”

“I’ve seen creampuffs scarier than you,” Shirabu mumbles, but he leans into Yahaba’s touch, sighing contently when Yahaba runs his fingers through his hair, brushing back his bangs. “I will destroy you.”

“I love you.” Yahaba slides his legs out from under the table, turning in his chair to face Shirabu better. “But get wrecked, Shirabu.”

Shirabu’s eyes widen, but he reacts too late. Yahaba springs from his chair, catching him before he can escape past the table, and pins his arms in a merciless hug.

“Surrender!”

Shirabu struggles in his grip. “Never.” Determinedly, he wiggles half way to the floor, but Masaru bolts from his place beneath the table to lick Shirabu’s cheeks, paws braced against his thighs, until Shirabu retreats back into Yahaba’s arms, biting down on a smile. “Traitor.”

“Take a nap.”

“This is treason,” Shirabu snaps.

“Last warning.” Yahaba wiggles his fingers, and Shirabu tenses up, struggling harder to break free.

“Yahaba,” he growls, “don’t even think about. I swear, if you fu—" His voice pitches, words spluttering as Yahaba slips his hands beneath Shirabu’s arms, sliding them down Shirabu’s sides.

Yahaba smirks, tickling beneath Shirabu’s rib until choked laughter shakes his frame. “Sorry? Did you say something?”

“I will murder you,” Shirabu hisses.

“Hmm?” Yahaba drums his fingers in thought, and Shirabu squirms. A strangled giggle breaks past Shirabu’s lips before he can stop it. “Wrong answer.”

Shirabu surges forward, breaking free from Yahaba’s grip, but, catching him by the arm, Yahaba yanks him closer, tickling along his ribs, down his sides, finding sensitive spots that make Shirabu throw his head back with laughter. A blush burns his cheeks. He kicks at Yahaba, but the force fades from his attack with each shake of his trembling shoulders. Tears spill from eyes squeezed tightly shut.

“Well?” Yahaba ghosts his fingers along Shirabu’s back, nudging him closer.

Without resistance, Shirabu moves forward and collapses into Yahaba’s arms. Burying his face against Yahaba’s neck, Shirabu’s shoulders shake, breathless laughter warm against Yahaba’s skin. “I hate you,” he pants.

“Sounds like someone needs a nap.”

Shirabu stomps on his toes, but as the adrenaline fades, so does his trembling. Not wasting his only chance, Yahaba maneuvers Shirabu out of his arms and carefully guides him out of the dining area, into a bedroom littered with textbooks and sports gear. Masaru follows eagerly. Empty boxes of sports tape line their path. A stray volleyball rolls off its place on the desk to join rogue kneepads, never before worn.

At the foot of the bed, Shirabu falls face first into the mattress. “Should be schudying.” The pillows muffle his voice, but Shirabu snuggles deeper into the blankets, not complaining when Yahaba covers him with the comforter.

“Later,” Yahaba promises. Perching on the edge of the bed, he runs his fingers through Shirabu’s hair. “You gotta take care of yourself. You’re more important than these stupid exams. ‘Kay?”

Shirabu grows quiet. Smooth breathing moves his chest, deep and even. Lips quirking into a fond smile, Yahaba leans closer, pressing a kiss to Shirabu’s temple.

Fingers tangle in Yahaba’s collar and yank him down. A yelp strangles from his throat, smothered by pillows. Turning his head, he finds Shirabu glaring at him through bleary eyes. “If I suffer”—a yawn breaks his sentence—“so do you…”

Yahaba watches him mumble a little longer, his words trailing away into nothing. One of Shirabu’s arms dangles haphazardly across Yahaba’s back. Gentle breathing fans against his face.

Shaking his head, Yahaba scoots closer, draping his own arms around Shirabu’s chest. “Alright,” he whispers, “deal.”


	3. Three Days

The bag is endless, Shirabu realizes, as, once again, Yahaba reaches inside, this time pulling out a tub of ice cream. Across the table, scattered between math notes and a book of poetry, Yahaba lays out a feast of wrapped sandwiches, potato chips, and packaged fruit.

Hands full of peanut butter crackers, Yahaba meets his gaze. “I brought snacks.”

“You brought a supermarket.”

“Uh, yeah.” Yahaba rubs his neck, the other hand balancing a stack of chocolate bars. “Got carried away, I guess? But”—he awkwardly arranges cookies alongside a forsaken textbook—“we can use this to keep motivated.”

Shirabu eyes him skeptically, eyes narrowing as Yahaba holds out the ice cream temptingly close.

“I don’t want it,” he says, but his stomach growls.

“It’s cookie dough.” Yahaba draws the words out like a lilting song.

Looking between Yahaba and the tub in his hand, Shirabu glares, snatching the ice cream. “I hate you.” 

“Well you do hate most fun things so…” Yahaba smirks.

Shirabu rightfully hits him with a nutrient bar. Across from him, Yahaba only chuckles and sits down, his bag of treats seemingly empty, although Shirabu suspects there are more snacks yet to be unveiled.

“What’s all this about?” Slowly, Shirabu sits down in his own chair. He runs his hands along the tabletop, his only barrier between himself and another tickle fight.

“Can’t I spoil you every once in a while?”

“No.”

With a sigh, Yahaba kicks on his laptop. The gentle whirling of the computer draws Yuka closer, but Yahaba holds out a stuffed mouse, a simple peace offering. “I just had the munchies.” Yahaba throws the mouse, and, in a burst of orange fur, Yuka dives after it. “Stop staring at me like it’s poisoned.”

Shirabu glares between his ice cream and his homework, and, popping off the lid, he decides that death a-la-cookie-dough is the least of his problems. His head pounds. Snatching a spoon off the table, Shirabu almost feels glad that Yahaba raided his kitchen for every dish, fork, and spoon he could find.

Turning back to his notes, Shirabu wonders how much ice cream he’ll need if he fails. Mint chocolate chip. Rocky road. Strawberry swirl. _Anything but matcha_ , Shirabu thinks, underlining a definition with his free hand.

_Matcha._

The pencil falls from Shirabu’s fingers.

Light filters through a slim crack between the curtains that hadn’t been there before, casting the table in an easy midday glow. Shirabu’s gaze drifts from snack to snack. Apple chips and salted caramel and the fruit bars Shirabu can only find online for special orders. To the left, he categorizes the various candies into groups based on sweetness, none of them sour. Scattered around forsaken textbooks, Shirabu counts off his favorite flavors, his comfort foods after long practices, his childhood preferences all the way down to the way the sandwiches were cut and packaged, yet, the list of things that isn’t there grows longer. No sour gummies, no abominable cheddar chips, no revolting mochi. Shirabu looks at Yahaba. No matcha green tea.

“I feel you judging me.” Thin fingers glide over pristine pages. Not looking up, Yahaba maps out diagrams in his notes, each line and shape a different color.

Shirabu watches him take another bite of Pocky between switching out pens. “I’m always judging you.”

“Yeah?” Not looking up, Yahaba smirks. “Like what you see?”

“No.”

Yahaba shakes his head but smiles good-naturedly. He draws another diagram, chooses another pen to color with, finishes another stick of Pocky.

“You suck at lying.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Yahaba doesn’t meet his gaze. Finished with his diagram, he starts another one, not changing colors. The straight lines wobble and skew. Reaching for a stick of Pocky, Yahaba instead grabs a pencil, accidentally biting down on an eraser that has seen better days.

Awkwardly, Yahaba finally looks at him.

“You didn’t see anything.”

“I saw everything.”

Yahaba glares, but his cheeks redden. “Shut up and study.” He fiddles absently with the last stick of Pocky, nibbling at the end. To his left, Yuka jumps onto the table, stretching across his laptop, but Yahaba barely glances at her.

“You’re so obvious,” Shirabu sighs.

“Wha—”

Hands braced against the tabletop, pulling his legs onto the chair beneath him, Shirabu leans over their junk food banquet and bites the other end of the Pocky stick.

The blood drains from Yahaba’s face, but then his cheeks gain color, growing from pink to scarlet, to the deepest shade of red Shirabu has ever seen, until even his ears burn brightly with blush.

Shirabu smirks. Biting down carefully, he sits back in his seat, taking the Pocky stick with him. Across the table, Yahaba blinks, jaw dangling open. Then, like a deer in the headlights, his eyes widen, larger and larger, and he buries his face in his arms.

Shirabu bites off a chunk of Pocky. “Mind in the gutter, Shigeru?”

“ _I hate you_.”

“What a shame.” Finishing off the rest of the stick, Shirabu brushes the crumbs from his fingertips. “I love you, too.”

Like a bunny lifting its head from a burrow, Yahaba slowly peeks at him over his arms.

Shirabu’s smirk softens to a smile. Standing, he walks around the table, tousling Yahaba’s hair as he passes. Long rows of stainless steel appliances greet him in the kitchen, but Shirabu moves past them all to a cupboard seldom used. “Next time you buy a whole supermarket”—Shirabu grabs a bag of potato chips, coated in extra disgusting cheddar, and throws them at Yahaba, smirking when the bag smacks against his face—“get some of your favorites, too.”

Blush still lingering along his cheeks like a fading magenta galaxy, Yahaba glares, but his lips twitch with a barely hidden smile.

Returning to the table, Shirabu holds out a box of matcha candy.

Without hesitating, Yahaba takes Shirabu’s hand instead, standing to pull him into a hug.

Shirabu drops the box on the table. Behind them, more light peeks in softly through the curtains, the gap between the fabric even bigger than before. Gaze narrowing, Shirabu connects the dots, the sunlight, the food, the insistence on sleep, but, leaning into Yahaba’s arms, he lets his protest slide without speaking.

_You worry about me too much._

_You’re so extra._

_Idiot._

_Thank you._

Like a knot untying itself from his stomach, Shirabu feels his anxiety melt away. In its place, warmth spreads.

_I love you, too._

The words linger on his tongue, but sliding his arms around Yahaba’s waist, listing to the gentle rise and fall of his chest, Shirabu knows they never did need words to understand each other completely.


	4. Two Days

The couch is more comfortable, Yahaba grudgingly admits, but at what costs?

His head swims, hollow and empty. Sleep tugs at his eyelids. Perched on the cough arm, his book cries, pencil lead smearing the page like open wounds, eraser shavings trailing to the floor like blood. Absently, he translates the word problem into English, French, Korean, searching for a way to find sense through the gibberish. 

Sprawled across the couch, his head resting on Yahaba’s lap, Shirabu doesn’t stir. Tousled hair falls to the side. Tired eyes scan a book propped open on his chest, thumb tracing lazily along the edge of the pages.

Peaceful.

Cute.

Yahaba drags his gaze back to his science problems. Mournfully, the questions remain blank, no answers writing themselves during his absence. The longer he stares, the more he thinks that some answers have erased themselves instead. Surely he wasn’t still stuck on the second problem set?

On his lap, Shirabu squirms. Rolling onto his side, he loops an arm around Yahaba’s waist, pulling his knees up to hold his book in place.

Yahaba brushes his bangs behind his ear. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Murder me.”

“Can’t.” Pausing his music, Yahaba pulls out his headphones. “You’re my space heater.”

“Then freeze to death,” Shirabu mumbles, but he snuggles closer, cheek pressed against Yahaba’s stomach.

Combing his fingers through Shirabu’s hair, trying not to worry how that position will hurt Shirabu’s neck, Yahaba tries to focus on his practice book instead, but the pages ripple like water, words rearranging themselves into a distant picture set to motion. Chemical compounds break down into walls and floors, a dorm room come to life with volleyball gear and paintball guns and Disney posters. In the carboxyl groups, he watches late night Skype sessions transform into sleepovers, blanket fights, early morning arguments over steaming mugs of coffee and tea. As Yahaba drags his pencil in lazy spirals, figures rise from the graphite. Slow dances. Trips across campus, hand in hand. Kisses in the rain, hugs under endless skies, a future waiting for him with open arms and slanted bangs.

Everything he stands to lose.

Pain pinches his side.

Yahaba yelps. Lying across Yahaba’s feet, Masaru gives his leg an apologetic lick, but the real culprit looks up at him with questioning eyes.

“You’re not studying,” Shirabu says.

“Neither are you.” Yahaba rubs his side.

Shrugging, Shirabu closes his book and let’s it fall to the ground. “This is a terrible horror story.”

“It’s a romance novel.”

“Same difference.” Wiggling up by his elbows, Shirabu turns around to cuddle into Yahaba’s side. One arm winds haphazardly around his neck. “What’s your excuse?”

“No excuse.” He taps his pencil against the paper. Blank questions glare accusations beneath his fingers. “I’m studying.”

Shirabu reads the pages quickly, but, as his eyes fall on him, Yahaba can’t help but feel like it’s not the practice book being analyzed.

Yahaba’s nails dig into the pencil. These problems are simple. Shirabu could solve them in an instant and probably already did. Yahaba just needs to work harder instead of wasting Shirabu’s time. At this rate...

The graphite spirals melt and collapse, a train speeding far away from him with no station to stop at.

Shirabu leans into his shoulder. “Where’s your formula?”

Yahaba blinks. His formula? It’s right there. But squinting through hazy late afternoon light, Yahaba finds only crossed out beginnings and a doodled flower wilting in the margins. The number for gravity trails into the spine and disappears. Forsaken carboxyl groups line the page borders, but they don’t belong to any of his equations.

“I was getting to that.”

“Right.” Stealing his pencil, Shirabu scratches out the instructions, circling only the keywords. At the top, he jots down a formula that looks both familiar and strange. “Like you’ve been ‘getting to’ returning my jacket. For three months.”

Yahaba looks down at the hoodie he’s wearing, an incriminating shade of Shirabu’s favorite purple, and says, “I’m getting to that.”

Shirabu yanks his ear.

“Ow,” Yahaba whines, even though it doesn’t hurt. Gently, he rubs his temple above his ear, but his head feels clearer than it has since they abandoned the table in favor of couch studying. Soft forest sounds blend with the music humming from the headphones dangling around his neck. Shirabu’s formula looks less and less familiar the longer Yahaba stares at it, but it’s been reduced to its simplest parts, a straightforward template. Pencil moving on its own, Yahaba fills in numbers for letters. The calculator clicks with each step of division until an answer appears.

Shirabu nods his approval. “Nice, uh…”

Yahaba smirks. “Nice receive?”

“Shut up.”

Snickering, Yahaba picks up Shirabu’s discarded novel from the floor, resisting when Masaru tries to steal it out of his hands in a one-sided bout of tug of war. “C’mon, you should be reading.” He nudges Shirabu, but instead of sitting up, he slouches down farther, head nearly sliding onto Yahaba’s chest.

“It’s endless.” Shirabu closes his eyes. “Burn it.”

“No way, this is a classic.”

“Nerd.”

“Kids these days,” Yahaba sighs. Pulling Shirabu’s legs onto his lap, he props the book against his knees. “No culture.”

“Nerd,” Shirabu repeats, but his eyes flutter open to watch as Yahaba flips to the last dog-eared page.

“Chapter twenty-two, huh?” Turning off his music, Yahaba leans his head against Shirabu’s. “‘The scene inside the hospital,’ Yahaba reads, ‘was a stark contrast from the chaos outside.’”

“You’re voice sucks,” Shirabu grumbles. “Keep going.”

“‘The silence was eerie and oppressive. Not a person could be seen anywhere in the long white halls.’”

Shirabu hums, eyes fluttering shut once again. Warm breath tickles Yahaba’s neck, but it doesn’t compare to the warmth filling his chest. Strange shadows stretch across the coffee table as the sun sinks lower behind thinly parted curtains. Tiredness tugs at his own eyelids, but, stifling a yawn, Yahaba keeps reading.

The couch is still way too comfortable for proper studying, Yahaba decides. His practice book slides off the arm in a flurry of papers and notes, and he’s sure the cushions have stolen at least three of his pens. Abandoning his laptop to the dinning room table and Yuka’s nefarious clutches feels like a defeat Yahaba will never be able to live down. The price for comfort is just too high.

Yet, with Shirabu in his arms, Yahaba thinks some things may be worth the price.

And if Shirabu already fell asleep after only the second paragraph, then, Yahaba smiles, maybe that’s okay, too.  


End file.
